


you make all the flowers bloom

by fortyfiveangrycats



Series: no solution [4]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Soulmates, and when they tell their soulmate that they love them, au where people grow flowers, dorky babes, new flowers bloom, teammates to friends to lovers, thats not good for The Children, this would be g-rated but kyoutani swears occasionally and
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6680638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortyfiveangrycats/pseuds/fortyfiveangrycats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yahaba doesn’t expect him to be here. He guesses it’s about twelve-thirty in the morning by now, the hours wasted away as he sits upon a swing at the playground. He doesn’t actually know why he came to the playground, he just knows that it drew him in, and he liked the overgrown ivy that crawls up the poles of the swingset.</p><p>	But there’s Kyoutani Kentarou, taking a seat on the swing next to him, like Yahaba doesn’t even exist. They’ve only known each other for three whole years, Yahaba thinks sarcastically. It kind of bugs him— to an extent— that Kyoutani doesn’t acknowledge him, but he continues to stare off into the distance at the sky, which is a deep purple with grey-stained clouds cluttering the sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you make all the flowers bloom

**Author's Note:**

> this is honestly SO FLUFFY AND GROSS I CANNOT EVEN BELIEVE
> 
> basically the au is like.... people grow flowers ... and if they touch their soulmate, then their soulmates flowers begin to grow on them, and when they tell their soulmate that they love them (or vice versa) they bloom completely new flowers
> 
> yahaba does not know that it's a soulmate thing he just assumes that people just.... grow plants
> 
> theres a few parallels to "maybe" and "i wanna be yours" so props to u if you get the references

Yahaba doesn’t expect him to be here. He guesses it’s about twelve-thirty in the morning by now, the hours wasted away as he sits upon a swing at the playground. He doesn’t actually know why he came to the playground, he just knows that it drew him in, and he liked the overgrown ivy that crawls up the poles of the swingset.

But there’s Kyoutani Kentarou, taking a seat on the swing next to him, like Yahaba doesn’t even exist. They’ve only known each other for three whole years, Yahaba thinks sarcastically. It kind of bugs him— to an extent— that Kyoutani doesn’t acknowledge him, but he continues to stare off into the distance at the sky, which is a deep purple with grey-stained clouds cluttering the sky. 

“What about you?” Yahaba hears from somewhere off to his right. It’s Kyoutani, who has apparently had a whole conversation with Yahaba in his head already.

“What?” 

“Why’d you come here? No one just sits around in an old playground at half past midnight, okay?” Kyoutani scratches the back of his head. Yahaba’s never really noticed his flowers, he realizes. Kyoutani’s got black flowers that travel across his skin. They’re small, and each little flower has five petals. They look delicate, Yahaba thinks, It’s kind of soothing to look at them. They contrast his own flowers, his baby blue daisies that tangle in big clumps by his wrists. They get frustrating when he’s writing sometimes, but he doesn’t get tired of looking down at the little blossoms.

Yahaba’s not sure when he answers, he’s not even sure what he says, but Kyoutani nods in agreement, and suddenly, they’re both sighing in relief. 

“They’re nice,” Yahaba begins, “your flowers.” 

He doesn’t expect Kyoutani to blush, raising his wrist to hide his face. “Y-Yours too,” he splutters, and Yahaba can see the yellowish gleam of the moon from behind a thin strand of clouds. He’s never thought of it before, but right now, at this very moment, Yahaba compares Kyoutani’s voice to honey. He sounds sweet and like liquid gold, and Yahaba can feel the pangs of longing in his chest. He’s not quite sure what he’s longing for, but Kyoutani’s brown eyes are softer now that they’re not in school, and they’re falling right on Yahaba.

Kyoutani kicks his legs a bit, making the swing under him shift and he sways back and forth under the support of the swingset. It’s quiet besides the gentle whistle of the breeze, but now that Kyoutani’s swinging— even if it’s ever so gently— the metallic creaking of the old playground has arisen. It’s not a pleasant sound usually, but it feels nostalgic and Yahaba doesn’t really care. He begins to hum somewhat subconsciously, and he’s fairly sure it’s one of the first pieces of music he’d ever heard his piano teacher play (he was around seven when he heard it first, the tune drifts back into his mind sometimes). It’s in an E-flat chord, and for some odd reason it seems to fit Kyoutani’s pattern of swing. He wonders the himself if he’s altered the tempo in his head to match Kyoutani’s pace, but disregards the thought process. 

Besides, he thinks, it’d be a lot cooler if the tempo actually matched. It’d seem kind of coincidental. 

He pushes off of the gravel with his own shoes, old sneakers that he hadn’t the chance to replace since his first year of high school (two years, Yahaba corrects himself— it sounds too much like saying “twenty-four months old” versus “two years old”). He’s forgotten the feeling of sitting on the swings, to feel the cold breeze in his hair and brush across his skin. In a way, he gets kind of lost in it.

“Yahaba,” Kyoutani says quietly, and a few thoughts fly through Yahaba’s head. He doesn’t use honorifics, I guess, is first— followed by then again, I don’t actually think he ever addresses people by their names— succeeded by if that’s the case, maybe he’s not such a bad guy, if he’s actually using my name. He swears at himself mentally.

“Yeah?” He responds, clearing his throat afterwards. He’s not entirely sure if he actually said anything or if he was imagining it, and Kyoutani wasn’t helping with the lack of reaction to anything ever.

“Arabesque,” Kyoutani states. “Claude Debussy.”

There’s a silence as Kyoutani’s swing slows down, Yahaba stops humming, and he’s pretty sure the Earth is turning far slower at this moment. He nods slowly, knowing full well that Kyoutani isn’t looking at him, and that’s okay. 

“Yeah,” he manages, “Yeah.”

Kyoutani sighs, turning to face Yahaba after a few seconds. He reaches with one hand to find one of his flower vines and tugs at one of the little black blossoms, wincing as he plucks it off. He reaches the palm holding the flower out to Yahaba, and Yahaba raises an eyebrow at him as he notices Kyoutani avoiding eye contact with him. The little bloom falls into Yahaba’s outstretched hand and rolls to the side, and Yahaba’s eyes go wide.

“Please keep it,” Kyoutani whispers through his teeth, “It’s not gonna wilt.”

“Kyoutani-kun, thank you,” Yahaba gasps. He’s never had someone give him one of their flowers before. It fills his heart with a warm feeling that he can’t quite put his finger on— the closest he can compare is finding a perfect song, or holding hands with someone when you’re feeling anxious. He tucks the flower into his shirt pocket, making sure that it’s safe and close to his heart (the second one somewhat unintentionally, but nonetheless, it fits). 

He decides to give Kyoutani one of his own light blue flowers in return, watching excitedly as he glows with pride at the gesture. From so close, Yahaba can see that Kyoutani’s hair has grown out a tad bit, tight curls instead of a buzz cut, and whenever the breeze hits, his hair dances slightly in the wind. 

“Thank you,” Kyoutani says, and he leaves it at that. Respectfully, it’s enough to hear— especially when Yahaba’s never really heard of Kyoutani being polite to anyone. Kyoutani merely observes the flower, holding it closely to his chest. Yahaba’s heart skips a beat when he sees how Kyoutani’s legs dangle over the ground as he sits on the swing (Yahaba’s at least touch the gravel when he’s seated, besides, he’s got long legs). He looks focused and calm, lost in his own world within Yahaba’s flower.

 

—

 

Yahaba sees Kyoutani next about a week later, when the moon is high up ahead and glittering with the stars at its side, as opposed to shrouded in mist in the early morning. It’s closer to ten-o-clock this time, and Yahaba would be lying if he said that he wasn’t at least a little bit hopeful to see Kyoutani.

Sure enough, he’s perched on the swing again, and Yahaba realizes that he’s fallen in love with the way his skin looks in the moonlight, like he’s been touched by the stars themselves. He’s wearing a red tee shirt, his arms struggling to be contained in the fabric of his sleeves, and Yahaba chuckles at his own sleeves, loosely hanging over his shoulders, fitting over his hopelessly pale skin. 

“Yahaba,” says Kyoutani as they make eye contact, standing up from the swing, letting the chain fall back with a clink. 

Yahaba has prepared a collection of his favorite flowers in a bunch, not quite organized enough to be considered a professional bouquet, but the sentiment is there. They’re all the flowers he dreamed could have been part of his vines, yet he’s stuck with his forget-me-nots. He’s definitely not going to forget them if they’re wrapped around the length of his body, that’s for sure. 

“Kyoutani,” Yahaba responds to the original call, holding out his flowers wrapped with black ribbon (he had thought of Kyoutani’s black clematis flowers when he’d put the arrangement together). Kyoutani’s hands linger on his for a second more than Yahaba would’ve taken, and he furrows his brow in thought. Yahaba’s almost positive that it’s because he’s never been in a situation like this, but Yahaba thinks it’s cute, and the freckles trailing down Kyoutani’s nose are even cuter. He might’ve whispered something to Kyoutani, but he’s not sure— he probably just imagined it again, he does that a lot— and he can sense himself reaching out for Kyoutani’s touch again. 

“You never told me,” Yahaba begins, “why you came here. That first night.”

Kyoutani puffs out his lip. “I like the moon,” he replies, retracting his arms to hold the bouquet close to his chest like he did with Yahaba’s flower.

“That’s fair,” Yahaba continues. “I like the stars.”

It’s interesting how much they compliment each other— not so much as I love your shirt or your eyes are very nice as wow, you like chocolate and I like vanilla, how strange— and as they sit back down on the swings, they talk for what seems like ages about what seems like everything (It’s about two hours, but that’s not a big deal). 

Kyoutani’s a dog person, Yahaba’s grown up with cats. Yahaba prefers salad, Kyoutani likes soup (It’s mainly because he gets to slurp it. He couldn’t care less about what kind of soup it is). Yahaba’s better at basketball, Kyoutani’s better at soccer, Kyoutani could eat an entire tub of chocolate ice cream while Yahaba would rather stick to a scoop or two of vanilla bean. His personal favorite, however, is that Kyoutani’s favorite color is yellow, while Yahaba’s is purple. Actual complimentary colors, he thinks. 

 

—

 

It becomes routine to go to the playground at night to talk to Kyoutani about the universe, wasting away hours that they could be studying for exams to just soak up each other’s presence.

Yahaba’s drowsier than usual one night, and although his memory is a mess, he can barely make out the feeling of Kyoutani wrapping his arms around Yahaba, carrying him away. He can confirm the feeling when he wakes up in a house that is not his at all, walls painted with pale yellow paint, a few pictures of a corgi puppy on the walls. He’s got a white down comforter draped over his shoulders, and he shivers a bit when the door at the edge of the room rumbles. 

Kyoutani takes a few steps in before realizing that Yahaba’s awake, and he puts his palm to his forehead at the realization.

“I didn’t know where your house was,” he began, “and I didn’t want to wake you either. I hope this is okay.”

More than okay, Yahaba thinks, it’s incredibly comfortable. He likes that Kyoutani’s got plants everywhere in the room, some even managing to climb the walls, and for some odd reason, it fills Yahaba to the brim with joy. He’s practically gushing with positive energy. He proceeds to fall back asleep, the image of Kyoutani’s bedroom solid in his mind.

 

—

 

About two months after their first meeting at the playground, Yahaba’s sitting in class, letting his pencil flow in tight circles in the margins of his math notes. He thinks he sees Kyoutani’s flowers for a split second, but he’s mistaken— they’ve never been in the same class. But he sees Kyoutani’s flowers again, and looking down at his wrist, there’s a black blossom on his arm that definitely wasn’t there before. It’s attached, too, the stem intertwined with his own vines, and he feels his heart start to beat more quickly. 

He wonders if it’s nature’s way of using metaphors, if it represents the fact that Kyoutani’s really grown on him. He scoffs to himself, disregarding his play on words. 

But when he asks his mother later that night, she says it’s exactly that, and Yahaba’s not sure how he’s never noticed the orange flowers that twist around her skin, how they mingle with yellow blossoms. He checks on the original flower that Kyoutani had picked for him, and the single flower has grown into a whole mess of leaves and vines, trailing down his bedside table to the floor. He’s known that it’s been growing, but it seems a lot more lengthy today than ever before.

He finds himself not at the playground, but at Kyoutani’s door that night. Kyoutani had given him the address for situations like the one a few weeks back, where Yahaba had fallen asleep at the playground, and he had proposed it for if Kyoutani was the one to fall asleep. 

Kyoutani opens the door slowly, scanning Yahaba as he stands on the doorstep. He outstretches his arm, and Yahaba copies, eyes widening as he can see forget-me-nots scattered in clumps of black flowers across Kyoutani’s wrists.

“Yours,” Kyoutani sputters, “and mine.”

Yahaba nods. “I have both too,” he continues, “how did—”

Kyoutani takes Yahaba’s hand in his, and although Yahaba’s body temperature feels like it’s risen one hundred degrees, he’s more surprised at the fact that a few more black blossoms appear on his arms, how he sees blue flowers sprouting from Kyoutani.

Yahaba shakes his head in awe. “What—” He stops speaking, in awe at the situation around him. The flowers aren’t stopping, either— they’re climbing up Yahaba’s shoulders and weaving through Kyoutani’s curly hair, and he’s never witnessed anything like this before. He knows that some events can make someone’s flowers bloom, but he’d always thought that it was things like marriage or the sight of a newborn child, not hanging out with someone he finds he likes better than the others.

Kyoutani’s eyes dart nervously around Yahaba, and Yahaba is amused by the fact that he’s so incredibly flushed, sputtering and embarrassed. 

“How can— What does this— Fuck! Fuck!” He shouts, and Yahaba shushes him. It’s late, and he’s worried that Kyoutani’s got younger neighbors who haven’t learned those words yet and doesn’t plan on letting them. Nonetheless, he can’t help but wonder what Kyoutani was actually trying to say, but he shrugs it off. He’ll ask him some other time, when Kyoutani’s not entirely malfunctioning. 

They stand at the doorstep for a while more before Yahaba gives Kyoutani’s hand a quick squeeze and skips down the sidewalk back to his house. He’s always found skipping more efficient than walking, besides, it’s a lot more fun, and when it’s nearing midnight, what’s better than a bit of fun? 

His mother has stopped asking questions about where he’s disappearing to, but her eyes widen when Yahaba steps through the door. He kind of wants to ask why she’s awake as well, but he’s more concerned about her expression. She turns quickly and walks upstairs, leaving Yahaba more confused than when he’d left Kyoutani’s. 

He falls asleep, but doesn’t dream, and when he wakes up, he’s tangled in vines of black clematis flowers. He smiles to himself.

 

—

 

When Yahaba arrives at school the next morning, he receives interesting glances from the rest of his classmates. He looks more like an overgrown bush than a human being with a few flowers growing out of him, and he’s not entirely sure how it’s happened. He hasn’t seen Kyoutani yet, but he wonders if Kyoutani is the same, overwhelmed by vines of blue forget-me-nots and thin leaves.

One of his friends gives him a thumbs-up, and he doesn’t know why, but he gives a thumbs-up back anyways to be polite. 

 

—

 

Yahaba falls in love with Kyoutani three days from then, when Kyoutani’s braiding the flower vines through Yahaba’s hair. They’re sitting in the wildflower field by the old playground, and Yahaba concludes that he’s never felt more at home. Now that it’s gotten warmer outside, Kyoutani’s started to tan, and Yahaba loves to look at the freckles that dance across his cheeks. He plans to kiss them all someday. 

He falls in love with Kyoutani when Kyoutani talks to him for ten minutes about his dog. Her name is Bee, and she’s a five year old corgi that his dad bought him when he was thirteen. Kyoutani loves her to death, and Yahaba wants to meet her someday. He shows Yahaba pictures of Bee on her phone, and there are countless albums of her, a total of four-hundred and fifty-six individual shots of his dog.

He falls in love with the band-aids on Kyoutani’s knees. They’re nearly shrouded completely by his flower vines, but Yahaba likes the story better.

“Skinned my knees running on the pavement from the gym at school,” he begins, hiding his face, “it was raining.”

“Oh, I love the rain,” Yahaba comments. It’s not a lie. 

He falls in love with the way the sun sets over the treetops, how it refracts off of Kyoutani like he’s an angel, how it lights up his eyes so they look more amber than they look deep brown like they do in the moonlight. He loves that Kyoutani just lets himself fall backwards into the tall patches of flowers, getting drowned out by the chirping of birds. 

“Kyoutani-kun, I should be scolding you for skipping out on going to school,” Yahaba coos. Kyoutani snorts, twisting the stems of two flowers together. Yahaba wonders what’s running through his mind at this moment.

A slight smirk plays at Kyoutani’s lips. It’s a good look for him, Yahaba thinks.

“Yahaba, I should be scolding you too, then. You’ve joined me today, remember?”

Yahaba pouts at him, realizing that it wasn’t exactly wrong. (No, he corrects himself, it’s completely true.)

He falls in love with Kyoutani’s touch, however soft, especially as his hands run softly through Yahaba’s hair as he rests his head on Kyoutani’s thighs, staring up at the clouds. Their flowers have nearly knitted together, and Yahaba wonders if the vines will ever get used to Kyoutani, or if they’ll constantly grow at his contact. He doesn’t know which he prefers, to be honest.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Yahaba whispers breathily into the crook of Kyoutani’s neck after a long day of sitting in the field. The sun has set by now, stars taking the places of the clouds, the moon replacing the sun. There’s an owl perched in the nearest tree, hooting softly against the equally quiet rushing sound of the breeze. 

Kyoutani’s hands find Yahaba’s sides, and Yahaba gasps as not blue, not black, but purple flowers make their way across their skin. Kyoutani puts a hand to his mouth, furrowing his brow, but his eyes are wide.

“I knew it was you,” Kyoutani whispers back, “from the start. I knew it all along.”

Yahaba tilts his head to the side. “Knew... what?”

“Do you not know...? About the whole... soulmates deal?” Kyoutani’s fingers ghost across Yahaba’s cheek. He is more gentle than a newborn deer, his gaze softer than a baby blanket, and Yahaba’s never wanted to kiss him more. 

“No,” Yahaba admits, “but... is that really it? Are we...”

Kyoutani nods. “Yeah.”

Yahaba doesn’t mind the silence that follows, as Kyoutani wraps his arms around Yahaba, pulling him up so he’s seated on Kyoutani’s thighs. Yahaba can feel his face burning, but Kyoutani’s is too, and that’s reassuring. Purple flowers climb over their shoulders and wind around their limbs, round petals and bright leaves growing into the other vines that grew on Kyoutani and Yahaba already. 

“Pansies,” Yahaba chuckles. 

Yahaba’s mother cries tears of joy when Yahaba steps through the front door, covered in flowers that don’t appear to be his. She tells him that she’s proud, that his dad would be proud if he were still here, that she’ll call his sister to tell her the news. She weeps onto his shoulder, repeating how happy she is for him over and over, and Yahaba actually has to tell her to stop.

He finds out that his mother’s soulmate flowers are dahlias, that they do stop growing over time, that they can be controlled. She says that it’s the most amazing experience to find out what your soulmate flowers are, and Yahaba agrees. He replays Kyoutani’s expression in his head a few thousand more times as he walks upstairs, as he tucks in his blankets, as he falls asleep, reminding himself of how wonderful his soulmate really is.

 

—

 

Yahaba shares his first kiss with Kyoutani at the old playground, four whole months after the first time they met there for the first time. He almost forgets what he’d originally thought of Kyoutani (probably killed a man, gets lunch detentions every Tuesday for the same damn thing, backtalks the teacher) while he’s got Kyoutani’s lips touching his. Yahaba’s started making sure he puts on lip balm in the mornings, just in the slight chance that he’d end up kissing Kyoutani that day, and for once, his efforts have paid off. Now, in this moment, with Kyoutani holding his head gently, Yahaba realizes what he truly is (a dorky eighteen-year-old who loves dogs, who’s an all-around good guy with a tough way of communicating it, his soulmate). 

“Shigeru,” breathes Kyoutani as they break away. The name rolls off of his tongue, and he presses a quick kiss to Yahaba’s jaw. Yahaba smiles at him to reassure him, to tell him that it’s perfect.

“I fell in love with you from the moment I met you,” he continues, managing to take Yahaba’s breath away in a single sentence. He almost hates him for being so incredibly smooth (and at the same time, not at all, he trips on his own feet constantly). 

 

—

 

Yahaba sleeps over at Kyoutani’s more often than not nowadays. He prefers the weekend sleepovers, however, when Kyoutani will take his time waking up, how he looks at Yahaba when he’s first waking up, like Yahaba’s the only person in the world that remotely matters. Bee jumps in the bed sometimes, her short little legs mustering up enough strength to get onto the mattress. She tucks herself in between the two of them as they sleep.

“You snore,” Kyoutani grumbles, “It’s fuckin’ ridiculous.”

Yahaba lets out an exasperated sigh at his soulmate, rolling over to cover his face with the pillows. He can feel Bee’s tail bumping against him, and Kyoutani’s arms are hanging around his waist. He tangles his legs with Kyoutani, turning his head a little to smile subtly at him.

“Yeah, well you drool,” Yahaba retorts, “but I guess Bee does both, so we’re even there.” He pats Bee’s head with his left hand, the tan-spotted corgi excitedly wiggling at the touch. Kyoutani gives Yahaba a glance that melts him to pieces (it’s the face he makes when he sees Yahaba interact with animals, what a sap). 

Kyoutani’s father is more than used to Yahaba showing up randomly with Kyoutani, and he’s learned not to barge into Kyoutani’s room (too many times he’s caught them in the middle of really tender moments, a few times he’s caught makeouts). Yahaba’s family, on the other hand, always seem to be completely surprised when Kyoutani shows up, and Yahaba’s mother always showers Kyoutani in praise for being as wonderful as he is (Yahaba has to agree, he’s pretty cute). 

Kyoutani nearly showers Yahaba in kisses before Yahaba can suggest that he needs to go take an actual shower, and Yahaba decides that he’s never going to get sick of anything pertaining to Kyoutani. He holds his hand, brushing his thumb over Kyoutani’s palm. His forehead is close to Yahaba’s, and Yahaba makes a few comments under his breath about how nice Kyoutani’s eyes are, how cute his freckles are— he makes sure to leave a trail of kisses across Kyoutani’s cheeks to completely ruin Kyoutani and satisfy himself. (Twenty freckles down, some hundred left.)

“How about we go back to bed for a little while longer, Kentarou,” Yahaba proposes, “because I’m tired and I like sleeping next to you.”

Kyoutani grumbles something in response, but the lack of motion conveys that he  
s okay with that. “You call me a sap, and here you are, talking about how you like sleeping next to me. Gross.”

“You love it,” Yahaba teases. He does, Yahaba can see that in his eyes. 

He pulls the blanket over their heads, giggling at the purple flower that’s bloomed on Kyoutani’s collarbone, just visible under his loose tee shirt he’d worn to bed. Yahaba presses his lips to Kyoutani’s once more before they both shut their eyes, relaxing into the comfort of the mattress. He’s not sure when they wake up, but he also doesn’t care, and the way Kyoutani holds onto him makes up for all of the time that they’ve lost.

**Author's Note:**

> isnt this grossly sappy ????????? its my inner emotions conveyed through two guys who are as gay as i am
> 
> tumblr || hajibean


End file.
